


who's got their claws in you, my friend? (into your heart i'll beat again)

by starsandgutters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has to pause, has to make sure, because this is different from what they’ve done before, this <i>matters</i>. Not that all the other times were not important -- frantic touches in darkened motel rooms, tumbling into each other like inevitability, kisses messy and harsh and sloppy and everything good in the whole wide world, hips rutting against each other's like their lives depended on them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who's got their claws in you, my friend? (into your heart i'll beat again)

**Author's Note:**

> For [Yasmine](http://ethicalmadness.tumblr.com), who gave me the prompt: 'don't trust me'.

“Are you sure?” Dean pants, thumbs rubbing idle circles into Castiel’s hips. Concentrating is _hard_ , pun totally intended, but he has to pause, _has_ to make sure, because this is different from what they’ve done before, this _matters_. Not that all the other times were not important -- frantic touches in darkened motel rooms, tumbling into each other like inevitability, kisses messy and harsh and sloppy and everything good in the whole wide world, hips rutting against each other's like their lives depended on them -- those times were important too, _so_ important, life-changing.

But it was not the same as this, the two of them together in Dean’s room, on Dean’s bed, under Dean’s sheets, clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor as their bodies slip-slide slickly against each other, the friction of their skin burned in Dean’s mind just as their combined weight leaves its mark on the memory foam -- and won’t that be quite a thing to remember -- so he just _has_ to take it seriously, not charge in half-assed like a shithead.

Castiel hasn’t replied, busy tracing a path down the middle of Dean’s chest with his lips, so Dean tugs at his messy hair lightly to get him to look up. “Cas, a-are you sure?” He cringes at how croaky and stuttery his voice comes out, but give him a fucking break. No man should be expected to form coherent words, English or otherwise, after spending the best part of an hour with his fingers buried deep inside their best friend’s ass, especially when they might be more than a little fuckin’ _gone_ over said best friend,  and _especially_ with the kind of sounds it turns out Cas can make. Seriously, Dean is never forgetting _that--_ nor does he particularly want to.

“Because if you’re not-- we can… I mean, I know you’ve never. I just. You have more than a right to be nervous. I know I’d be…” Truth be told, they _both_ know he’d be, which is why Dean is the one who’s, so to speak, pitching. (Well, _and_ because he’s the one whose sexual history doesn’t entirely consist of an encounter with a murderous reaper.)

Except that when Castiel does look at him, his face is perfectly calm, despite the glaze of lust in his eyes and the cherry-red blush down his cheeks and neck. “I trust you, Dean,” he says simply, in that matter-of-fact gravelly lilt that Dean used to think held the truths of the universe.

The words get a wheezing rush of air out of Dean’s mouth, as if he’d been physically socked in the stomach. It could sound like a laugh, if there was any actual humour in it.

“Oh, man, Cas, no,” he chuckles, and it’s no more mirthful a sound than before. “That’s a _terrible_ idea. Whatever you do, don’t-- just _seriously,_ don’t trust me.” He pauses, swallowing a bitter lump behind the hollow smile on his lips. “I break things, Cas. It’s what I do.”

Castiel is still looking at him, with the same intensity he’s displayed since day one of their acquaintance. That hasn’t changed: it’s just gotten more layered, more tender, more knowing.

“Dean.” Cas says, firmly and levelly, just like that, as if it was a complete sentence instead of a four-letter name, and for all the abovementioned tenderness and knowing, that voice still makes the hair rise at Dean’s nape, exactly the way it had when Cas was still Castiel, Angel of the Lord, fully capable of making Dean shit himself with a few syllables and a fierce glare (not that he’d ever admit it).

“Dean,” he repeats, and this time the word is softened by Castiel ducking forward to plant a kiss on Dean’s jaw. Dean blinks, confused, waiting, short on breath; it is an utter mystery to him how Cas can be so fucking calm and collected and intent with his cock straining hard and -- Lord have mercy -- lube leaking out of his ass from Dean’s careful ministrations.

“Dean,” Castiel says a third time, but this time follows it up with a soft smile and low-spoken words: “I was broken long before I met you.”

Before Dean can open his mouth to refute that, Castiel silences him with a soft touch of lips. “This,” he says, dipping to kiss Dean’s throat, “This is mending. This,” he continues, kissing Dean’s belly button, “is fixing. This,” he concludes, lips closing firm and lingering over Dean’s left nipple, “is healing.”

They’re looking at each other again now, and God, Dean’s only human, and all he can do is pull Castiel to him by the scruff of his neck, because he just can’t stand the way Cas is looking at him right now, and if he has to bear that gaze much longer, something inside him is going to crack and spill open.

“Cas,” he pleads between heated kisses, as their hips roll against each other’s of their own volition, and he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for; “Cas, you-- I’m going to ruin this. It’s all I know how to do. Whenever I…” he trails off with a desperate, choked-off sound, because it’s too much, it’s all too much and still not enough as he pushes his tongue into Cas’s mouth, searching, revelling in the knowledge that Cas is going to give back as good as he gets.

Then, so naturally that Dean almost doesn’t notice, his plea for mercy is fulfilled-- because that’s what Cas does, he answers Dean’s prayers when nobody else will; and this time he does so by placing his palms flat on Dean’s chest and pushing, laying him flat onto the mattress, rearranging himself so he’s straddling him, strong thighs holding firm on either side of Dean’s hips, his cock flushed and heavy against his stomach.

“I trust you, Dean,” he repeats, and it’s final, it’s fact, it’s gospel. His hand reaches for Dean’s aching dick, the touch fumbling and inexperienced and a little awkward and too rough, and hands-down the absolutely best thing Dean’s ever felt.

Cas sinks down as Dean pushes up, and after that, words seem entirely pointless, replaced by moaning and grunting and  “ _yes_ , God” and “fuck, _please_ ” and what Dean’s pretty sure is an Enochian profanity or twelve. They crash into each other like sea and shoreline, the meeting of their hips inevitable and life-giving and utterly, unfathomably _good_ ; so damned good, that it isn’t long before Dean is stammering out words of warning.

“Cas,” he pants, “Cas, get off. I’m gonna-- Cas, fuck’s sake, I can’t, please, _please_ …”

But Castiel, chest flushed and eyes shining, is all burning purpose above him, bearing down on him like fire, like a tidal wave, like heavenly justice-- and then he actually fucking _clamps down_ around Dean, with a deliberate skill he by all rights shouldn’t even possess, and that’s it, that’s all, Dean’s done for, lips parting to release a loud, aching groan he is _so_ going to deny ever uttering. It’s all he can do to hook an arm around Cas’s chest and pull him close, flush against his stomach, sharing breaths and gasps as Dean’s other hand frantically works around Cas’s leaking dick and then Castiel actually _yells_ as he paints Dean’s belly, so Dean feels a little better about his shameless groaning, and that’s his last rational thought.

His mind only starts coming back to him a few minutes later, reason struggling to pierce the haze of sated afterglow as Cas disentangles their bodies with a grimace and lands on the mattress with a heavy ‘oomph’, promptly scooting closer to Dean’s warmth without a thought, as if it’s second nature for them to always seek the other out. And, _isn’t it?_ , Dean has to wonder. By all rights, he and Castiel shouldn’t even be sharing the same material plane, much less the same damp sheets. It’s uncanny, how they just keep on finding and finding and _finding_ each other.

Dean’s too spent  to try and form words,  which is okay, because he doesn’t exactly know what to say anyway. Part of him still feels like he should push Cas away, repeat his warnings, convince him Dean can’t be trusted with fragile things. But realistically, he knows it’s pointless, because Castiel is a stubborn son of a bitch, which -- Dean supposes -- actually makes them perfect for each other.

And okay, so maybe he doesn’t actually _want_ to push Cas away.

And maybe what they have isn’t that fragile after all; maybe it’s tempered with hellfire and brimstone and fighting each other and saving each other, over and over again. Maybe this thing between them is brutal and true and pure, and it makes no sense to rail against it anymore than it does to say the sun is cold.

It feels like a quiet revelation, and Dean is about to open his mouth and try to form words regardless, with the dreadful certainty that he’s going to say something idiotic, something mushy and sappy and _romantic_ , when Castiel snuffles against his shoulder, voice groggy and low:  “You’re very good at sex.”

It’s not even that funny, but it’s such a _Cas_ thing to say that Dean dissolves into honest-to-God _giggles_ , ignoring the confused blink it gets him from Castiel. He wants to reply with something equally endearing, like _you’re also pretty skilled at intercourse, buddy,_ _you’re 50 shades of dork_ , _I love you like breathing._

Instead, he pulls Cas closer to him. It’s warm and safe. They fall asleep.

 


End file.
